


Under the Mistletoe

by Jominerva



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gift Fic, M/M, Magic Realism, Mistletoe, tally marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:04:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jominerva/pseuds/Jominerva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Gift-fic for Elli<br/>From: Your Diogenes Secret Santa</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally an idea for a headcanon, but I decided to flesh it out a bit and then this happened somehow. It's been so long since I tried writing something like this so I'm hoping it turned out alright. Merry Christmas Elli! This has been fun :)

There was mistletoe in the flat. John noticed it when he and Sherlock were returning from an extended stay in Bristol. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned something about ‘making the place look more festive’, but John had figured the decorations would have been nothing more than a wreath on the front door and a few pine-scented candles on the mantle above the fireplace.

But for some reason Mrs. Hudson had gone above and beyond that. Apparently she’d taken advantage of their absence and lack of the ability to protest and used it as a chance to cover the flat from head to toe in Christmas cheer.

The tree was already up and decorated with tinsel and lights. Several boxes of baubles were stacked beneath the tree; Either Mrs. Hudson ran out of time before they returned or she wanted them to finish decorating the tree themselves.

Lights had been hung over every doorway and around every window, as well as on the mantle above the fireplace, and the few Christmas cards they had already received (two from previous clients and one from an old army friend John had recently come into contact with) were displayed on the wall above the sofa where Sherlock usually put documents and other various papers pertaining to his current case.

And then of course there was the bloody mistletoe hung in the doorway between kitchen and sitting room. John had to wonder whether Mrs. Hudson had managed to do all of this herself or if she’d somehow gotten help. As much as he hated the idea of someone else coming into their flat while they were gone, John hoped the latter was true. The thought of Mrs. Hudson standing on chairs to hang things and doing all of that manual labour by herself was a bit unsettling.

When Sherlock stepped into the living room and saw the decorations he made no comment, and instead glanced round the room with the smallest hint of a frown on his face. To anyone else his expression might have seemed neutral but over the years John had learned to read his various facial expressions as easily as his favourite book.

“What is it?” He asked, setting his suitcase down on the kitchen table, making sure not to stand in the doorway. He watched Sherlock step further into the room and begin toying with the ornaments on the tree.

“The flat’s all decorated.”

“You sound upset. I thought you hated decorating for Christmas anyway. I would have thought this was Mrs. Hudson doing you a favour.” Sherlock turned away from the tree to send a small smile in John’s direction

“You’d think, but believe it or not decorating the flat with you is one of the few reasons I like Christmastime.”

John felt a small fluttering in his stomach and a sharp stinging at his left wrist. John sucked in a breath and glanced down at the tally mark right at the cusp of his sleeve, still looking as fresh as the day it appeared.

They had been staying at the Chillston Park Hotel in Kent just over a month ago. Sherlock had told John they were going to investigate a series of disappearances, yet somehow the case had been solved by the time they got there. Sherlock had insisted they stay though, since they had already booked a room and spent so much time packing for an extended stay. They’d gone sightseeing, visited Dover Castle and Kelsey Park, went bike riding in the countryside, and had afternoon tea every day sitting at one of the tables by the lake at the hotel.

It was during one of these afternoon teas that the mark had appeared. They had simply been sitting at a table, looking out at the lake while the sun had just begun to set. Sherlock was regaling John with tales of past cases he’d solved before they met. They’d stayed out there for so long the sun started to set. Sherlock had paused mid sentence to comment on the beauty of the moment, and all John had been able to think about was how beautiful Sherlock looked in the dimmed sunlight, a gentle breeze gently tussling his curly hair while he proved to John once again that he was the wisest man he’d ever met. John had felt the sting and knew immediately what it was.

Contrary to what some may believe, the marks don’t appear when you meet your “soul mate”, nor when you fall in love. It is only when you realise you have fallen in love that the tally mark appears on your wrist. There’s an initial sting, followed by a dull pulsing pain until the moment your loved one gets a mark of their own and the pain resides. The marks stay forever; Even after the love dies they only fade, serving as a cruel reminder of what once was. And there’s no guarantee a mark will ever appear on your loved one’s arm, just like there is no guarantee that love will always be requited. Such seemed to be the case with his feelings for Sherlock.

John clamped a hand over his own mark, the movement drawing Sherlock’s attention from his face to his wrist. John tried to play it off like he was simply adjusting his sleeve, but he knew Sherlock wasn’t fooled.

“Are you still cold? You’ve been complaining about having a chill for the last month now. I think we should be worried at this point.” Sherlock began to approach, and John took a step back, to ensure he was nowhere near the mistletoe when Sherlock reached the doorway. As much as he would love to share a kiss with Sherlock, he would rather it not be because of a silly Christmas tradition. Besides, there was no guarantee Sherlock would even go through with it, and the thought of the rejection was enough to make John’s heart ache and his wrist throb with a renewed vigour.

“Um, it’s not so bad today,” John managed to say, still trying to pull his sleeve down further. He considered himself lucky that Sherlock hadn’t noticed the mark yet, as observant as he was, or at least hadn’t mentioned it if he had noticed.

Sherlock’s eyes dipped down to John’s wrist briefly before he met his eyes again. There almost appeared to be a challenge in his gaze, willing John to move his hand, like he knew what would be revealed if he did. John instead clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at the mistletoe Sherlock was almost directly under.

Sherlock’s gaze rose with John’s and when he noticed the sprig of green and red above him he jumped back as if avoiding a fire. John pretended not to notice the fear that had flashed in Sherlock’s eyes when he’d realised what was above him. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t hurt at such a dramatic reaction from Sherlock.

“I’ll just … go unpack then,” he said, grabbing his bag and heading out to the landing. He didn’t bother waiting for Sherlock to respond; He still looked mortified from his mistletoe discovery. John set his suitcase down on his bed with a sigh and rubbed a hand over his aching wrist. Perhaps the pain would always be there, a true representative of an unrequited love. John remembered his mother telling him once that love could be a cruel thing. He hadn’t believed her then, having just received his first mark and high on the endorphins of discovering his then girlfriend Mary had one as well.

He was about to be deployed to Afghanistan, and they’d promised each other that the moment he got back they would go straight to a church to get married. Every day and night John ran a hand over the tally, forcing himself to remember that he had a reason to survive, to make it back home. Then one night, as he was getting ready for bed, he noticed the mark had faded. Fearing the worst, John sent a letter to Mary, begging her to still be alive, desperately hoping his mark was faulty somehow.

The response had come two weeks later. She’d found someone else. She hadn’t died, but her love for him had.

When John returned home it was to an empty flat and memories of what once was. He used to spend all of his time sitting alone staring at his wrist, wondering what went wrong, what was wrong with him, why had he lost his one and only love?

Then he’d met Sherlock, and he became too busy chasing criminals to worry about his past love. Now he’s too busy worrying about his current, unrequited love. Now when he looks at his wrist he sees the faded mark of a love gone wrong, and the stark reminder of a love that would never be anything more than one-sided.

There had been a few times when John had caught a look of _something_ in Sherlock’s eyes that could have been mistaken for extreme fondness or even love, but the next moment Sherlock would be back to his usual cool self, acting high and mighty and above silly human emotions and such. The most affection John got from Sherlock was a cup of tea or a pat on the shoulder. Perhaps there had been the occasional brushing of fingertips when John took the cup from Sherlock’s hand, and John could remember several instances where Sherlock’s hand had rested on his shoulder just a beat longer than one would have deemed normal, but John knew it meant nothing. Sherlock just didn’t see him that way. John had checked; His wrists were bare.

After spending several more moments wallowing in self-pity John started on the tedious task of unpacking. It was already getting late and he still had to figure out something for dinner.

When he came back downstairs he made sure not to walk through the doorway with the mistletoe. He made a mental note not to think about that too much.

Sherlock was reclined on the sofa, praying to the ceiling with his eyes closed. If he noticed John’s presence he didn’t comment on it. In fact, John had begun to assume he’d fallen asleep until Sherlock appeared in the kitchen. John noticed he’d gone out onto the landing to use that doorway instead of taking the shorter route that would have required walking under the mistletoe. Neither of them mentioned it.

And that became the norm. They didn’t talk about the mistletoe. They didn’t mention the way they both avoided that doorway whenever the other was nearby. At first John had to admit it was a bit silly, and inconvenient taking the slightly longer route to the kitchen, but it was a habit they had both somehow fallen into.

They continued on with their normal daily routines, seeing clients who gave them strange looks when they went out and around to get tea and papers from the kitchen table to bring into the living room, but thankfully said nothing.

Scotland Yard called for their help with a few cases here and there, but even John would admit business was slow. He was surprised Sherlock hadn’t started shooting the walls yet.

Instead, Sherlock had been spending increasing amounts of time occupying himself by watching Christmas movies while curled up with a blanket on the sofa. John had to admit he looked adorable like that, with his eyes bright and a mug of tea that John made him held between his hands. Each time John saw him like that he felt his heart swell and his wrist give an extra throb. Each night he found it increasingly difficult to tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s face.

He found himself wishing he could sit down beside Sherlock, force him to share some of that gigantic blanket, and sip on his own mug of tea.  Maybe they could fall asleep like that, and John would wake up with Sherlock’s head on his shoulder and his curls tickling the skin on his neck and chin.

“John?”

He was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of Sherlock calling his name. Once he came to his senses he realised he’d been standing in the middle of the kitchen, Sherlock’s tea in hand, staring at the man sitting on the couch in the blue housecoat that made his eyes look stunning.

“I … uh …”

“Would you care to join me tonight? They’re showing the Doctor Who Christmas special.”

It was then that John noticed a second blanket resting in Sherlock’s lap. His eyes darted back up to Sherlock’s face, where he saw that little hint of _something_ that appeared every now and then. There was a small smile on Sherlock’s face and a twinkle in his eye as he looked up at John, who slowly approached the couch. He handed Sherlock his mug, trying and failing to ignore the way his fingers tingled when Sherlock placed his own hand over his as he took it. Sherlock then handed him the spare blanket, which John took before sitting down beside Sherlock. Their thighs were pressed together, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, so John didn’t move.

They watched the programme in relative silence, save for the occasional remark from Sherlock that made John giggle like a teenage schoolgirl. And for a moment, John forgot all about the mistletoe and his tally mark, and simply enjoyed being in Sherlock’s presence while watching the Doctor encounter and defeat the Daleks for the thousandth time.

When it was over John watched the credits roll for a moment before turning to look at Sherlock, whose eyes were already trained on him. Almost immediately John felt a blush creeping across his cheeks, and was thankful for the darkness around them so Sherlock couldn’t see.

The Christmas lights were still on, lighting the room with a warm glow that was equal parts cozy and romantic. A wayward curl had tumbled down onto Sherlock’s forehead, falling over his left eye in a way that looked perfectly calculated while still seeming to be out of place.

John was considering reaching out to tuck the errant strand behind Sherlock’s ear, possibly even run a hand through those dark curls to make sure no other strands tried to step out of place, when Sherlock sucked in a breath and turned away.

Oh, right. That wasn’t the sort of thing one bloke did for a friend. Not even a close friend. Not even a flatmate. Staring lovingly into one’s eyes while running a hand through their hair was typically an action one did to their romantic partner, and unfortunately Sherlock was just a friend. A best friend, mind you, but still a friend.

“I’ll just… I’ll take that,” John said, reaching for Sherlock’s teacup as he stood. Sherlock brought the cup closer to himself and shook his head, avoiding eye contact.

“No, that’s okay.” John watched him for a moment, shifting uncomfortably on the couch and looking everywhere but at him.

“Um, right. I’ll just … Goodnight then.” A noncommittal hum from Sherlock and John was on his way.

“John, wait.” He paused only a step away from the sofa and turned. Sherlock had a hand out. “The blanket, if you don’t mind. I’ll take it.”

“Right.” John removed the blanket that was draped over his shoulders and passed it to Sherlock, who set it down beside him in the spot where John had been sitting. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight John.”

The next morning when John came downstairs he found Sherlock on the couch, curled up in both blankets, sleeping peacefully, the teacup on the floor beneath the coffee table. He decided not to wake him and instead set about making tea, still avoiding the mistletoe.

Sherlock lumbered into the kitchen several minutes later, clutching both blankets to his chest as he dragged them along. He’d come in through the doorway at the landing as well, John noted.

Sherlock went back to his room, but not after spending a moment simply watching John prepare the tea. He could feel Sherlock’s steely gaze on him the entire time, but pretended not to notice. Soon Sherlock sighed, turned, and disappeared into his bedroom.

He emerged a little over an hour later and shouted a quick goodbye before bounding down the stairs, headed off to parts unknown. Several minutes later he returned, mumbling something about forgetting his mobile and heading to his room again. John called goodbye after his retreating form when he left again, then settled down with a book and readied himself for a lazy day in.

About half a chapter later Sherlock was back.

“My scarf,” he explained, bending to grab the scarf that had somehow managed to make it onto the floor beside John’s armchair.

“Where are you even going that’s got you in such a tizzy?”

“I … I don’t know, but I better hurry. Don’t wait up, I’ll be back for dinner! Maybe we’ll do Indian again. See if there’s an episode of Doctor Who on. Perhaps a Christmas special from another year.”

John watched Sherlock attempt to tie his scarf several times while he rambled before giving up and draping it across his shoulders. He flashed John an almost scarily fake smile before dashing off once again, leaving John staring at the space where he’d been standing, feeling more confused than he’d been in a long time.

That was certainly strange behaviour, even by Sherlock’s standards. John ignored it though. Everyone was allowed to have an off day, even the great Sherlock Holmes he supposed.

But the behaviour only got weirder. Sherlock began spacing out at crime scenes, forgetting simple things like where he left his toothbrush (the mantle above the fireplace) or what it was that John wanted from the Indian place down the street (chicken tikka masala) and other things that shouldn’t happen. Not to Sherlock Holmes.

John considered several times asking if something was wrong, but each time he and Sherlock sat down, and Sherlock gave him his full attention, those pale grey blue eyes fixed solely on him, every thought that might have inhabited John’s mind instantly vanished and were replaced with thoughts of Sherlock looking out over the sunset in Kent, of Sherlock with his eyes bright and lips moving rapidly as he wove a rapid web of deductions, or of the mark he was still managing to keep hidden.

And if the forgetfulness wasn’t enough, the strange looks and lengthy touches had been increasing in frequency over the last few days. John couldn’t lie to himself in saying he wasn’t starting to suspect something was up. He knew he couldn’t say he’d been trying for days now to get a glimpse of the skin on Sherlock’s wrist, searching for a mark that may be because of him.

What else could have Sherlock behaving in such a way? It had to be love. For the sake of John’s sanity and his heart, it had to be.

It wouldn’t be until several days before Christmas, about a week after the strange behaviour had begun, that John would be able to broach the subject. They were returning from a trip to Tesco, where they’d actually had to bring a grocery list because Sherlock didn’t trust himself to remember everything they needed.

“Sherlock, I want you to know that if there were anything wrong with me, you’d be the first to know.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks at the top of the stairs.

“Is there something you need to tell me John?”

“No, no,” John said, shaking his head. Sherlock opened the door to the kitchen and stepped through. John followed after, forcing himself not to look at Sherlock, so he could get through this difficult conversation. “Just, if there _were_ something I wanted or needed to say, I would tell you. Okay?”

Sherlock turned from where he was about to set his bags on the kitchen table to face John, his facial expression mostly questioning, but John could detect a hint of trepidation in his features.

“Okay,” he said quietly. John stepped forward and smiled at him.

“And I assume the same goes for you? I mean I know neither of us is very open about … certain sorts of things, but if there was anything wrong, really wrong, you’d tell me wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, sounding incredibly uncertain. A moment of silence passed between them, after which John heard the rustling of plastic as Sherlock shifted his stance. “John, is there something you’d like to say?”

“No! I just said-“

“Is there something you’re expecting _me_ to say then?” Sherlock asked, the anger in his voice easy to hear. John took a small step forward, hoping the motion wouldn’t make Sherlock feel crowded and thus anger him further.

“Why are you getting upset?”

“Why does it feel like you’re interrogating me?”

“I’m not! I just … I’m-“

“I don’t expect you to share every detail of your life with me and I would think you didn’t expect that of me either.”

“I don’t.” Sherlock was silent for a moment, and John heard the rustling of plastic again.

“Are you sure about that, John?”

“Why are you getting so defensive?”

“I am _not_!” John dropped both of his bags on the ground to cover his eyes as he shook his head.

“Jesus Christ…” John placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head up, keeping his eyes closed, counting to ten in his head. The technique had never worked in the past but he was still holding out hope that one day it might.

John opened his eyes, and felt all the heat drain from his face. He was standing almost directly underneath the mistletoe now, and Sherlock was standing directly in front of him.

“Uh…”

“What now?” Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes. He paused, then glanced up and John could see the blush start to creep up his neck.

“I…” He trailed off and swallowed thickly, dropping his gaze to John’s face. “I…”

John gave his best attempt at a smile and shrugged. He was pretty sure his attempt failed, as Sherlock only seemed to grow more awkward and agitated as the atmosphere around them shifted to something more charged, rather than simply heated as it was before.

“There’s … There’s no-”

John cut himself off as Sherlock began to lean in ever so slowly. He stopped when his lips were directly above John’s ear, and then there was a slight pressure against his temple. Sherlock’s lips lingered on his skin for several moments too long, and John couldn’t take it anymore.

“Oh for god’s sake-“

He grabbed two fistfuls of Sherlock’s shirt and pulled him down and forward until he felt a pair of lips pressed against his own. Closing his eyes, John allowed himself to melt into the kiss, and to lose himself in the sensation of having Sherlock so close to him, if only for this brief moment.

When John opened his eyes he saw that Sherlock’s were as wide as saucers. He guessed they’d never been closed. Suddenly John began to worry if he’d somehow misread every single signal he’d thought was a sign that Sherlock felt the same about him. All the not-so-secretive glances, the extended physical contact, the almost obsessive rubbing of his wrist … Had that all meant nothing?

John opened his mouth to apologise, but was unable to get a word out because suddenly Sherlock’s lips were sealed over his once again. There was the sound of bags crashing to the ground and John felt a pair of hands gripping his shoulders so tightly he might have bruises the next day. Once the initial shock over the fact that _Sherlock was kissing him_ wore off, John began to actively participate. He tilted his head and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, holding the man tightly to himself.

Sherlock sighed into John’s mouth, then broke away suddenly with a hiss, and when John opened his eyes again Sherlock was holding his wrist.

Hope swelled in John’s chest as he met Sherlock’s worried gaze.

“John?”

“What is it?” The wavering of Sherlock’s voice led John to believe something much more serious was happening, and though the disappointment was crushing he knew he couldn’t focus on that if something was seriously wrong.

“What is it?” he asked, stepping forward and reaching for Sherlock’s hand. He twitched away, gripping his wrist tighter, his face going white. “Sherlock?!”

“John … I …” Sherlock trailed off and stared down, removing his hand from his wrist. John looked down as well, and felt his heart leap when he saw the black mark on Sherlock’s skin. A smile broke out on his face, which only caused Sherlock to look at him in confusion. “John?”

“Is that for me?” John heard rather than saw Sherlock swallow before nodding.

“Yes, I believe it is.” Instantly John felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off of his shoulders and he smiled, breathing out what felt like a sigh of relief.

“Well, that’s, um, good. Yeah, good. Very good.” Sherlock glanced down before meeting John’s eyes again.

“But…” John stared at the crease forming between Sherlock’s brows and the slight downward curve of his lips. “You don’t-“

“See this?” John asked, holding out his wrist, turning it so Sherlock could see the two marks, one faded, one darker than ever. He pointed to the dark one. “Been there since Kent. That’s yours.”

Sherlock’s arms were soon wrapped around John’s shoulders and his face was buried in the crook between John’s neck and shoulder. John allowed his arms to encircle the narrow waist of the detective and allowed Sherlock to embrace him, even if it meant struggling to breathe in his death grip for several moments.

“Why do you seem so relieved?” he found himself asking, his words slightly muffled due to the fact that he was essentially speaking into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Because I am.” Sherlock sighed and loosened his hold on John enough for him to lift his head and look Sherlock in the eyes. “John, these marks don’t appear when you realise you’re in love. They appear when you admit it to yourself. I finally have, after trying for so long to fight. Using most of my mental energy to keep myself from thinking too much about it, about you, about me and about us. Forgetting even the simplest things because I was so focused on _not thinking_. Because thinking too much would only lead to problems, or so I thought.”

Sherlock pulled away to hold John at arm’s length and smiled. “I didn’t think you, felt the way you do. So I tried for a while to fool myself into thinking that what I felt for you was purely platonic, that I was happy with just friendship, but when you kissed me I – I knew I couldn’t deny it. I kissed you back because I finally admitted it to myself. I love you, John. I’m so sorry it took so long to say so.”

“I love you too. And it’s okay. We were both stubborn.” John glanced up at the mistletoe above them, as did Sherlock.

“Perhaps we should thank Mrs. Hudson for decorating. But,” Sherlock held up a single finger. “Next year, we _are_ doing the decorating together. I wasn’t lying when I said it was one of the few reasons I enjoy Christmastime.”

Sherlock then reached down to grab John’s hand and laced their fingers together. “Though now I believe I have more reasons than that now. This right here, is the best gift I could have gotten.” John gave Sherlock’s hand a quick squeeze.

“I agree, but don’t think this means I don’t want that Bond box set you got me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yeah, this was un-beta'd so all mistakes are mine and I apologise for them.


End file.
